out of her carriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much grander than she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement, of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and stretching its neck so that its wide-open eyes might peer at her through the railings. Something in the eagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it, and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile at people.
But the owner of the smudgy face
a little laugh and changed the subject.
“Would you like to see Emily?” she inquired.
“Who is Emily?” Ermengarde asked, just as Miss Minchin had done.
“Come up to my room and see,” said Sara, holding out her hand.
They jumped down from the window-seat together, and went upstairs.
“Is it true,” Ermengarde